Page 19 of Faking the Shot
Except she moans again, and I want to bury myself in her mouth just to see if she makes that sound for me.
I grind my teeth and force myself to look anywhere but at her lips. Or her tongue. Or the way she licks chocolate off the corner of her mouth like she has no idea what she’s doing to me.
“Are you okay?” she asks suddenly, her voice sweet but with a teasing edge that makes me want to throttle her—or kiss her.
“Could you eat that a little less . . . enthusiastically?” I mutter, shifting again and adjusting my napkin to cover the evidence of my rapidly deteriorating composure.
She raises an eyebrow and smirks, taking another exaggerated bite. “What’s the matter, Kaden? Cake too exciting for you?”
I glare at her, hoping to God she doesn’t notice the tension in my jaw or the very obvious issue happening under the table. “Just eat your damn cake.”
Her laugh is soft, victorious, and it pisses me off even more. “Aren’t you going to eat your chicken?”
I glance down at my plate: sad, pale-looking chicken and broccoli that’s probably steamed into oblivion. It looks as miserable as I feel. But all I can think about is how much I don’t want this bland crap.
What I do want? Her. Bent over this fucking table. My mouth on her pussy, making her scream and moan until she’s shaking. I want to taste her, have her legs trembling while she begs for more, to feel her nails digging into my shoulders as she comes again and again because I don’t know how to stop once I start.
Fuck the chicken.
Still, I’m not about to let her know any of that. She’s already smug enough. The last thing I need is for her to realize she’s completely under my skin—and in my head.
Gripping my fork tighter than necessary, I stab the chicken and shove a bite into my mouth. It’s as dry and flavorless as I expected, but I chew and swallow, keeping my expression neutral.
“Happy?” I mutter, shooting her a glare.
Her grin spreads wider, like I’ve handed her a trophy. “Ecstatic. Watching you eat that makes me feel better about my cake decision.”
“Good for you,” I bite out, taking another joyless bite of chicken. But my eyes betray me, flickering to her lips again as she licks a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
“Something wrong?” she asks, the mockery in her tone so subtle I almost miss it.
“No,” I snap, shoving broccoli into my mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone chewing cardboard. “Everything’s fucking perfect.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced, and takes another bite of her cake, closing her eyes like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck with this chicken. And a raging hard-on.
Chapter Nine
Kaden
When the Warm-Up Feels Like the Game
While we eat—or while she eats and I push chicken around my plate—Valentina goes on about the different things I can do to clean up the media mess. Apparently, my “bad boy” reputation needs more than a quick fix.
“Start smiling in public. Genuine smiles, not the ‘I’m-gonna-kill-you’ ones you’ve got mastered,” she says, waving her fork at me like a teacher scolding a naughty student. “And stop ignoring fans who approach you. Take a picture or sign something—even if you’re in a shitty mood.”
I grunt in response, stabbing a piece of broccoli. I could tell her about the valet parking guy or how I do stop when is just one or two people. It’s when things happen in masses that I freak out, but I choose not to say a word.
She keeps going. “Charity events would help too. Get your face out there in a good way. Smile at some puppies, hold a baby or two—just don’t look like you’re in pain while doing it.”
By the time she finishes her cake, we’ve gone over about a dozen ways for me to change my image: public appearances, community outreach, maybe even a viral TikTok moment. She has the right people who can create these moments without me being on social media—or having my own account.
She plans to coordinate with the Barracudas publicists and the PR department. I’ll agree to whatever she wants if it means I can escape this meeting. Honestly, she may be a little unprofessional with the way she practically fucks her cake, but damn if she doesn’t know what she’s doing. I actually don’t mind leaving this up to her. That’s saying a lot because I’m usually a control freak about my career.
“While talking to Jacob,” she starts, carefully placing her fork on her empty plate, “we decided I should go wherever you go. Unless it’s something directly related to the team, I’m there.”
“No,” I say flatly, crossing my arms.
